


don't be chosen

by sunflowerbright



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Agron&Mira&Nasir friendship is magic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Families of Choice, This is canon and you cannot tell me otherwise, descriptions of violence, emotions are confusing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Saxa does not let go of her hand even when she lowers it again, and the smile on her face strikes Mira as beautiful, when earlier it had only seemed feral.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't be chosen

 

Mira feels herself grasped suddenly, a hot mouth against hers: it is over as soon as it has happened, and the kiss does nothing to lessen the joy of a match won and new friendship formed.

Saxa does not let go of her hand even when she lowers it again, and the smile on her face strikes Mira as beautiful, when earlier it had only seemed feral. It is several minutes before her grip loosens, and Mira manages to slip away, standing beside Naevia as she watches the others fight: she still feels the heat of eyes at the back of her neck, but when she moves to see, there is only a swish of blonde hair, Saxa’s head turned away. It could not have been her, Mira convinces herself at the end of the day.

It is the night after that, that parts of the roof of the temple collapses in on itself, and Mira is caught underneath: gods be good, but structure still serves to uphold some of it, and she is left in a crevice, only bruises from a fall and a slight cut to the head as signs of the mishap on her body: she still hears Spartacus’ frightened shouting, and high-voice sentences in the language spoken by Agron and his people – it is him who pulls her from the wreckage as well, easily lifting her as if she was but a child, and his smile is relieved when he sees there is little harm.

“We thought you gone,” he tells her, and she feels a surprising burst of affection for the former gladiator – one who was with them from the start. They have not spoken many words, have not had much cause to, but she suddenly realises the space all of them has occupied, filling up the vast emptiness that the Roman’s had left them in captivity.

She does not see the other woman herself, but later that night Nasir says that it had been Saxa who had cried out, and that he had applied bandages to her hands, cuts and scrapes from where she had been digging with her bare fists to get Mira out.

It is surprising, despite their new stance with each other: Mira still remembers sneers and harsh glances, feeling inferior, because here was someone like Mira, who had fought her entire life, and how could she ever hope to amount to that, despite her skill with a bow? Saxa had shown little preference, until Spartacus had asked them to fight together, and they had had to rely on each other or lose.

The men they had been fighting had scoffed at the idea of losing to two women: Saxa had looked at her in face of their disbelieving expressions, and Mira had known that their only option was to win.

She still had not expected the kiss. Nor the elation it had brought, or the warm feeling spreading in her chest at the thought of Saxa so concerned for her. She wishes to seek her out, to thank her, but Nasir reads her thoughts as if she had spoken them aloud, and reminds her that Saxa had slipped away as soon as Mira appeared, alive and somewhat-whole – _embarrassed_ , is the word he uses, and it makes Mira’s whole world go reeling again. What would a woman such as Saxa ever have to be embarrassed about?

But the sentiment behind Saxa’s actions remain, especially considering the amount of scorn Saxa usually reserved for her – it seems the days of that really are past, and Mira finds herself even more grateful than she could have ever imagined.

Newfound realisations are what makes her approach Agron and ask him more of his people: he answers all of her questions with ease, and a knowing smirk, for which she punches him lightly on the shoulder. Nasir laughs, but there is happiness on his face, and Mira thinks she has found brothers in this place.

The day ends, and Mira finds herself exhausted enough to slip away to bed as early as she can, thoughts of approaching Saxa pushed to the morning: as it turns out, it is a pursuit she does not have to take up at all. Saxa comes to her.

Strong, wiry arms slip around her middle suddenly, and Mira hardly even has time to tense before recognition makes her relax again.

“If you do not mind me here?” Saxa’s voice is tilted with her accent and arrogance masking what Mira hopes is uncertainty: as uncertain as Mira feels, even if doubts have been slightly lifted by Agron and Nasir’s words.

“You can stay,” Mira gets out, and wishes she had said something different, less cold and calm, although that is what she so often is: Saxa does not seem to mind though, merely tightens her grip and presses her face against Mira’s neck, settling in the hollow between shoulder and chin. It sends thrills down Mira’s spine, and she feels more confident moving her own arm around Saxa’s shoulders, the other settling on the one the former slave has laid over her stomach.

“You fight well,” Saxa says, after mere moments of silence: moments that have left Mira’s heart beating fast in her chest at their closeness. “It would be… shame, if you were to fall without weapon in hand.”

A part of her bristles at the notion, wanting to remind Saxa that accidents happen, that a ‘glorious death’ is a veil cast over the eyes of the bleating sheep that the Romans have led to slaughter for hundreds of years, the very notion that they fight against, but there is something pleading in Saxa’s tone, and it is coupled with the fire in her eyes right before she had taken hold of her and kissed her, and even Mira can acknowledge that it is easier to defend someone from an enemy on a battlefield, than from the unfortunate happenings of every-day life.

“I will try,” she promises, and Saxa lifts her head to glare, though she says nothing more: her face is all sharp angles, shadows making them even sharper, as sharp as her tongue and her knives and their lives, and Mira thinks she won’t mind if she cuts herself on the edges – for maybe the first time, she is hardly even afraid to do so.

Maybe Saxa will stay, and be there to stop the flow of blood.

“You fight well,” the blonde repeats, one hand lifting up to brush a strand of hair away from Mira’s forehead: her fingers are rough with callouses from wielding a blade, and surprisingly warm. Mira cannot stop herself from shivering, and Saxa’s smile is almost frightening. “You, ah… are well at other things too.”

“’I do’ well at other things,” Mira corrects absentmindedly, before the words even register. “I am… I was hardly… what is your meaning?”

Saxa only laughs and presses her down, hands surprisingly gentle as she guides them together for another kiss. Mira thinks she understands then.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title from the lyrics of the song 'Mama Said' by Seanan McGuire


End file.
